


Burton Guster Gets Salty

by Emachinescat



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Again, And I'm proud of it, Blood and Injury, Bromance, But This Time Gus Is Here to Help Him, Don't Look Back, Emergency room, Epic Bromance, FebuWhump2021, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Pancakes, References to Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark, References to The Polarizing Express, Run, Shawn Here Shot, febuwhumpday15, yes the title is a bad pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29472045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: “Run! Don’t look back!” That’s what Shawn says to Gus as they run for their lives from a killer with a gun.  But Gus does look back – just in time to see his best friend go down with the crack of the pistol. Written for Febuwhump on Tumblr. Day 15: “Run. Don’t look back.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: Febuwhump 2021 - Emachinescat, febuwhump 2021





	Burton Guster Gets Salty

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in October, about 10 months after "The Polarizing Express." The timeline isn't super important here, but there is a reference to that episode, as well as to "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark." Enjoy! :)

Burton Guster should have learned from his childhood of Sunday school – when someone says, "Don't look back," _listen_. Keep your eyes locked on the path ahead, don't stop, don't turn around, just _run._

Lot's wife looked back after expressly being told not to by _God himself_. She got herself turned into table salt for her troubles.

Of course, it wasn't God's voice who ordered Gus to run and not look back. It was Shawn's, and Gus rarely listened to his best friend, mostly because nine times out of ten nothing Shawn said made any sense.

Oh, what Gus would give to get turned into a pillar of salt right now. It would be so much more bearable than what had actually happened when he'd ignored Shawn's frantic orders and skidded around to check on his friend's progress.

Lot's wife got off easy, Gus thought grimly. She was so busy turning into something that made mashed potatoes into clouds of bliss that she didn't have time to see the destruction in her wake.

She didn't have to watch her best friend get shot.

The thing was, it wasn't supposed to be a dangerous case. They'd actually done everything by the book this time – a rare occasion for Shawn, who was really trying to prove himself after the Czarsky fiasco last year. Gus was proud of him. Shawn was still, well, Shawn, annoying and juvenile as ever, with an endless supply of embarrassing nicknames, but in more subtle – and more important – ways, over the past year he'd started making strides to grow up a little.

And then _this_ happened. They found their covers blown, and they were cut off from the SBPD because their wires had been discovered. A Shawn-sized distraction later, and they were bolting out of the lake house where the bad guys had been running their counterfeiting and cocaine operation (they were quite ambitious in their criminal activities, with their fingers in more than one illegal pie), out in the middle of the woods, running for their lives from at least four angry killers with guns.

Shawn was lagging behind a bit – he'd been picked on by the goons, roughed up a little before their escape, and he was hurting, slower than usual. Being knocked to the ground with a powerful right hook and then given a few hearty kicks in the ribs would slow anyone down. Gus stopped to let him catch up, and nearly took a bullet to the face. He'd ducked just in time.

That's when Shawn, clutching his abdomen with one arm, waved him on with the other. "I'm coming, buddy!" he called, barely dodging a bullet himself. "Don't be that one Stormtrooper who can actually hit his target!" When Gus hesitated, Shawn ordered, his voice firmer and more authoritative than Gus had ever heard it. "Run! Don't look back!"

And so Gus did what he was told. Shawn was catching up anyway. And they seemed to be gaining ground as they hopped over roots and skidded through puddles of red and golden leaves. Any other time Gus would have enjoyed hearing the autumnal crunch beneath his loafers. Now, he hated the sound, because it might give away their position. Still, though, that bobbing and weaving technique that Shawn's dad had drilled into them on camping trips really came in handy. It had helped Shawn get away from a shooter in the woods once before, and it seemed to be doing the same now.

They raced through the trees, and the sound of their pursuers slowed. It helped that dusk was turning to night in earnest, and the full moon was mostly blocked by the canopy of trees overhead. The light that snuck through the cracks dappled the forest floor with just enough luminescence that they could see where they were placing their feet. It would be hard for their pursuers to see them in the dim light, let alone hit their targets.

After what could have been no more than ten minutes but felt like hours – his chest burned, his breath came in bursts, there was a nasty stitch in his side, and his heart thudded so fast and hard that he feared he would develop a blood clot or have a heart attack or something equally as dismal. He forced himself to keep moving, before he realized belatedly that he hadn't heard the sound of his best friend moving behind him for a bit.

Gus couldn't help it. He stopped and turned, squinting into the deepening dark to see that Shawn was about twenty feet back, hunched over, arms wrapped around his bruised midsection, trying to catch his breath. He saw Gus, stood up and lifted his arm to motion him forward.

That's when the sound of a pistol cracked through the air and Shawn went down.

* * *

The next twenty minutes were a blur. Gus managed to make it back to Shawn without getting shot himself and tugged his friend, already struggling to his feet, up, unthinkingly slinging Shawn's right arm around his shoulder. Shawn yowled in pain.

Fueled by guilt and panic, Gus muttered hasty apologies, switched sides, and then somehow, miraculously, steered a clumsy, weak Shawn back into motion, dodging and weaving, staggering around roots. The trees were thinning, and the crackle of the leaves became less frequent under their feet. Ahead, Gus could see twin beams of headlights winding their way down the curving highway. Somehow, miraculously, they'd made it back to the road.

And he wasn't sure if they were being chased anymore. Beside him, Shawn gasped in his ear, "Ditch… up ahead. There's an overhang of ground. We can… hide there."

Gus squinted toward where his buddy was pointing a shaky finger. Gus found himself once again staggered by Shawn's insane eye for detail. He wasn't sure if Shawn had just spotted the hiding place in the dark, or if he had noticed it earlier and recalled exactly where it was later on. Either way, it was impressive – not that he would ever admit that to Shawn. Even in the daylight, Gus wouldn't have been able to tell it was there, but he dragged Shawn along with him, and there it was, a divet in the earth partially shielded by an overhang of grass and dirt, not forty feet from the road. He helped lower Shawn to the ground and winced in sympathy as a pained grunt forced itself from his friend's lips as they wedged themselves into the pseudo-cave.

And just in time. Voices from overhead, the swing of flashlight beams darting on the ground in front of them, just missing their hiding spot.

"I can't believe we lost them!" one man growled. His footsteps crunched on the dirt just above their heads.

"I told you they didn't go this way – only complete idiots would head for the road, where it's open!"

"Did you hear those guys in there, bickering like an old married couple about whether Milk Duds or Whoppers are better while we were threatening to kill them? They _are_ idiots!"

Gus was offended. Also, on a side note, he'd totally won that argument. Whoppers were the clear winner.

"I'm telling you," said another voice, this one female. This was the chick who'd knocked Shawn flat on his ass. And then dug her steel-toed boots into his sides. Gus felt Shawn tense beside him. Neither of them breathed. "I heard them come this way. The leaves make it hard to hide your trail."

"There were so many people crashing through them that the sound was coming from _everywhere_ ," growled a fourth voice. Another sweep of a high-powered flashlight. The beam barely missed Gus's toes, and he resisted the urge to tuck his knees tighter to his chest. Even the smallest of movements could give them away. "Well, come on. Let's check deeper in. And I know I got at least one shot on that loudmouth psychic. If they get themselves turned around in these trees, he'll probably bleed out before they can get help, anyway."

The voices moved farther away. "What about his friend?"

A sharp, biting laugh. "That guy will probably just die of fear as soon as he's alone. Did you see him _cry_ when we started whaling on the psychic? What a wuss."

Although Gus could really not care less for what a group of criminals thought about him, the words still stung – probably because he'd dealt with such doubts about himself many times before. Shawn and Gus remained uncharacteristically quiet until the sound of the boots on dry leaves completely disappeared into the distance.

Shawn, unsurprisingly, spoke first. "Dude, we're like Froyo in _Lord of the Rings._ " His voice was strained, and Gus could just make out the shape of Shawn clutching at his right arm in the dark. It wasn't bright enough to tell if there was any blood, but he knew there would be.

"It's _Frodo_ , and you know it Shawn. I just made you watch the extended editions of all three films last weekend." Shawn had complained loudly and often that it was the longest 18 hours of his life. But Gus had seen him scoot to the edge of the couch during the battle at Helm's Deep.

For once, Shawn didn't try to claim he'd heard it both ways, which worried Gus almost as much as the gunshot wound itself. "Yeah, I know." A pause, then – "But I could _really_ go for some Yogurtland frozen yogurt right now."

Gus relaxed a little knowing Shawn's good humor wasn't all gone. "Tell you what, once we get out of here and get you to a hospital, we'll get some Froyo. I'll even buy." He said it like it was something special, but with Shawn, Gus always paid. Then he got serious. "How's your arm?"

The extended silence, broken only by a shuffling sound as Shawn tried to get a better look at the wound in the dark, set Gus's nerves on edge. At last, Shawn answered, "Not too bad."

" _Shawn…_ "

"I'm serious, dude. It hurts like hell, but it went through the outer part of my tricycle." In an overexaggerated British accent, he added, "'Tis but a flesh wound!"

" _Tricep_ , Shawn," Gus said wearily.

"I've heard it both ways." Shawn's voice was strained and weary, but Gus couldn't help but crack a tiny grin.

"Yeah, well," he changed the subject abruptly, knowing that they were pushing their luck staying here if they wanted a chance to escape before those searching for them gave up on the woods and came circling back. "Come on, can you stand up? We've got to find a phone." Their captors had taken theirs.

"There's a diner about a couple of miles down that road," Shawn managed, hissing in pain, as Gus helped him crawl out of their hiding spot and pulled him gently to his feet. Both of them remained hunched, trying to make themselves as small as possible, just in case. "It can't be later than eight now. It should still be open." His tone was wary, and Gus knew that he was vividly recalling the last time he'd been shot and had tried to call someone for help. He'd ended up in a worse situation than he'd already been in.

Gus patted Shawn gently on the back. "We've got two sets of eyes now. You're not on your own this time. We'll see it from a mile away if anything's wrong. But first, we need to try to stop the bleeding."

He sensed rather than saw Shawn bob his head in a curt nod. Exhaustion rolled off him in waves. Gus quickly removed his own jacket – at least it wasn't his nicest one – and ripped the sleeve off. On TV shows, tearing apart a piece of clothing looked easy. Gus was sweating by the time he'd separated the garment into two pieces, and his hands had cramped up. He had to rely on the light of the moon – brighter now that they were out of the woods and not huddled in a ditch – to quickly but carefully wrap the sleeve around Shawn's upper arm. He tied it, pulling tightly. Shawn barely managed to temper a cry of pain.

"Sorry, Shawn," Gus breathed, eyes prickling at the sound of his friend's agony, and the knowledge that he had caused it. He gave Shawn a couple of precious seconds to recover, but the bad guys could be back any moment. They needed to move. "You okay, buddy?"

Shawn managed another nod. Gus supported him as they made their crouching, tiptoed way to the road and walked along the side, hidden just within the treeline.

* * *

The hospital didn't keep Shawn overnight, but they might as well have. It was nearly five in the morning by the time they trudged into Shawn's dad's house – Henry had insisted that Shawn stay with him; Shawn on painkillers was an unpredictable disaster waiting to happen if he were left alone. Shawn had been too strung out on the drugs and exhausted from all that had happened to him to do much protesting. He'd tried to argue but fallen asleep halfway through his third point ("I have leftover tacos in my fridge, and I know you sure as hell don't. Home is where the tacos are.").

It had been a rough nine hours. The trek to the diner had been slow and arduous, especially for Shawn, whose injury, despite being a flesh wound, bled through the bandage – it had taken all of Gus's resolve not to puke at the metallic tang of blood in the air. This, in turn, made Shawn lethargic. Thankfully, the diner was still open, and nobody there was working with the criminals down the way. They'd thought they were renting the lake house for a family reunion or something. Shawn and Gus had made quite the spectacle staggering in, dirty, panting, Shawn's right sleeve stained with blood. A couple paying for their meal gave Gus a cell phone, and they called Lassie and Jules. They didn't make it to the hospital before Shawn was released, as they were taking care of the mess at the lake house. Around three-thirty, Gus got the call that all of the perps had been rounded up and that they were en route to the station for interrogation.

At least they didn't have to wait in the waiting room. Gunshot wounds trumped most illnesses and injuries on the urgency factor. Gus had called Henry while Shawn was taken back to a curtained room, and they'd both joined Shawn as the doctor had just begun to stitch up the entrance and exit wounds.

They'd given him a blood transfusion and a hefty morphine shot, and kept an eye on him for the next several hours. Then, when they felt he was doing well enough, they'd packed him a goody bag filled with prescriptions, instructional packets on cleaning and caring for GSWs, pamphlets on recognizing infections, and a metric ton of gauze and bandages. A still-drugged Shawn raised his good hand and _whooped_ on the wheelchair ride to the car like he was on a roller coaster (though Gus had a feeling Shawn would have done the same thing had he been completely sober). Between Gus, the amused nurse steering the hospital-themed ride, and Henry, Shawn had been bundled into Henry's truck, and then Gus squeezed himself in from the driver's side, and soon found himself wedged uncomfortably between his best friend and his best friend's father.

Shawn had fallen asleep with his head on Gus's shoulder before they got out of the parking lot.

And now they were at Henry's, Shawn in a pile on the couch, nestled under a protective hedge of blankets and snoring softly. His right arm was bandaged and in a sling, strapped tightly to his chest. He'd be in the sling for a week, at least. It didn't look comfortable, but with the painkillers, Shawn probably could have slept on a bed of cacti and been just as content.

Henry had insisted Gus stay the night since the Blueberry had been left at the lake house (if only they could have found the keys that had been taken from them before they'd made a run for it; none of this might have happened at all!). Gus graciously didn't point out that the night was basically over at this point anyway. He wanted to stay with Shawn for a while and knew Henry needed to sleep. And he was holding out hope that Shawn's dad might make pancakes when everyone was awake.

After double checking that his son was sleeping soundly and safe on the couch, Henry offered Gus a weary "'Night," and stumbled up the stairs to get a few more hours of rest. He'd been up all night, as had Gus. Shawn was the only one who'd gotten any sleep at all.

Even though Henry had offered to let Gus sleep in Shawn's old bed, Gus stayed in the recliner, burrowing into the comfy cushions and pulling a throw over his weary body. He didn't think he would be able to sleep, with the events of the past night swirling in his head. And then there lingering guilt, that question of if, in looking back, he had distracted Shawn, made him a target.

But he fell asleep almost at once.

* * *

He awoke to the smell of pancakes.

The Super Sniffer caught hold of the scent before his mind had even woken up, and he was sniffing hungrily at the air before he cracked his eyes open.

A laugh sounded from the couch, a bit weak, but instantly recognizable as Shawn's. "You're like that old hound dog from _Lady and the Tramp_ ," he commented. Gus struggled to a sitting position, as the chair had made a valiant effort to absorb him while he was sleeping, and then glared at his friend.

"Pancakes, Shawn," was all he said in rebuttal. He studied his best friend, who was lounging on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, a brazen move considering Henry was just in the kitchen and could pop in at any time. His face was still pale from blood loss and the remnants of pain the medicine couldn't completely squash. His eyes had a glazed quality to them, and his arm was still strapped to his torso. But overall, he looked better than he had last night.

Gus extracted himself from the recliner and sat down next to Shawn on the couch, who had turned back to the TV. It was mid-October, so ABC had been playing reruns of the Harry Potter movies for the past few days. _The Chamber of Secrets_ played out before them, and they watched it in companionable silence for a bit, with the occasional sound of clattering from the kitchen mingling with the sounds of the film. Gus felt the tension rising within him, though, as his mind wandered from Lockhart's class on Cornish pixies to the way things had transpired the night before.

When he couldn't take it anymore, he muted the TV right as Neville was flown up toward the ceiling by his ears. Shawn glanced over questioningly. Closer up, he looked much more subdued and drained, and Gus could see the lingering discomfort in the tightness at the corners of his mouth and in the way he didn't complain about Gus's interrupting the movie.

"Shawn… listen. I'm sorry."

Whatever Shawn had been expecting his friend to say, it apparently hadn't been that. Shawn's brows furrowed over hazel eyes. "Why?" A beat. "Are you going back on your promise of Froyo?"

Gus gave a half-hearted chuckle. "No, but… I didn't listen to you. I stopped and turned back. And then you got shot. And I'm sorry."

Now Shawn's entire face contorted in befuddlement. "You think that I got shot because you… turned around?"

"You were right – I needed to run, to keep moving. You'd made yourself a small target while you rested, and you were doing a good job of catching up. If I hadn't stopped and distracted you, if you hadn't reached our arm out to wave at me…" He trailed off, guiltily.

For the second time in the ten minutes since Gus had woken up, Shawn laughed at him. "Dude, what is it you're always saying about casualties not meaning coronations? You know, when I accuse someone without any evidence and you get all pissy about it?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "It's _causation does not equal correlation_. It means that just because two things happen around the same time, one didn't necessarily cause the other." He was so used to correcting Shawn automatically that it took a moment for his own words to sink in, for him to realize what exactly it was that Shawn had done.

Shawn grinned, and though it was a bit muted, it was also infectious. "See?" he prompted. "You said it yourself. It wouldn't have mattered if you'd kept running or not. I was in the line of fire either way."

Gus felt some of the weight lift from his chest, but he couldn't get the scene out of his mind – Shawn yelling, _Run, don't look back!_ Gus stopping, turning around. The report of a gun. Shawn dropping to the ground. In that moment, Gus hadn't known where Shawn had been hit. For all he'd known, his best friend could have been dead. And he couldn't shake the instant replay.

Shawn nudged his leg against Gus's, dragging his attention away from his glum thoughts. "Seriously, Gus," he said, his voice even and lucid, despite the prescriptions he was currently on. "It's not your fault, and I don't blame you at all. In fact, you're the reason I made it out alive at all."

The fist around Gus's heart loosened its hold a bit more. He breathed in deeply. "Really?"

A troubled look flickered for just a moment in Shawn's eyes. "I've been shot and on the run before, man." Gus knew this, of course, and Shawn knew full well that he knew. But Gus stayed quiet and let him speak his mind. "And I gotta tell you – being alone is terrifying."

"It was still terrifying with the two of us," Gus argued blandly.

"Yeah, but," Shawn said, studying the fingernails of his left hand like they were the most fascinating things he'd ever seen. "I wasn't alone, so." He left off awkwardly, but Gus felt as if new life had been breathed into him.

"I'm glad you're okay, Shawn," he said.

"Thanks, man."

From the kitchen, Henry's voice called out, "You two are _adorable_. Now get your asses in here before the pancakes get cold."

Shawn and Gus grinned at each other, and Gus gently helped a woozy Shawn to his feet. On the way to the kitchen, he let Shawn lean on him, like he always did.

The pancakes were the best Gus had ever tasted. They tasted of chocolate chips, and maple syrup, and the sweet, sweet nectar of friendship.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a fun one to write! I'm discovering I really like writing from Gus's POV (especially while I'm whumping Shawn, lol!). I hope you enjoyed – I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


End file.
